


way down we go

by dafirenze, jackswest



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Southern Gothic, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, The Dead Men (Skulduggery Pleasant)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2018-10-25 17:48:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10769319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dafirenze/pseuds/dafirenze, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackswest/pseuds/jackswest
Summary: The day Skulduggery Pleasant pulled his body out of the river and walked back in Roarhaven, living and breathing, was the day the war truly began.





	1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

 

“Roll the stone aside … And the dead man came out, his hands and feet bound.”  
– John 11:39, The Raising of Lazarus

 

 **23rd October, 1982. Roarhaven, Louisiana**.

 

The day Skulduggery Pleasant pulled his body out of the river and walked back in Roarhaven, living and breathing, was the day the war truly began.

He rolled onto the riverbed, still wearing the clothes Serpine had tortured him in. Lying there, staring up at sunlight filtering through the branches, Skulduggery waited for feeling to return. His whole body felt cold and empty, like it wasn’t quite real, a poor copy borrowed from a nightmare.

For a few moments, he couldn’t tell whether he was dead or alive, until he finally summoned the will push himself onto his knees. Minutes passed before he managed to stand.

A wordless feeling settled over him and Skulduggery felt choked by it, like he’d felt choked by the water. This wasn’t right. He shouldn’t be here. He tried to think of what had happened before he woke up in the river but everything seemed hazy and distant. Screaming. He could remember hearing screaming. Other feelings bubbled to the surface, demanding his attention. Smoke in his throat. His chest burning white hot. The water rushing up to meet him. Darkness.

He stared at the river for a long moment, wondering if he should walk back in, but his eyes caught a shape on the riverbank. His hat. He stooped down to pick it up and placed it on his head, something he’d done time and time before, except now his entire body was shouting at him that this was _wrong wrong wrong_. He kept coming back to that, how wrong this was. He felt like he was waiting for something to happen, for that to change, but nothing did.

There wasn’t space in his head for anything beyond that except a need to leave this place and find some answers. The only thing left to do was pick up his feet and walk.

 

–

 

Deadfalls Bar sat tall and proud in Roarhaven, closed in on either side by smaller, decaying buildings that got nowhere near as much traffic. Skulduggery kept his head down, collar turned up and eyes trained on the ground. He wasn’t overly well known in the town prior to... prior to whatever it was that Serpine did to him – but a dead man walking through Roarhaven was not something easily unnoticed.

Slipping through the door to the bar, Skulduggery felt guilt wash over him. By all accounts, the first person he should have been heading towards was Ghastly, but he couldn’t do it. Ghastly would have done something sincere, like hug him, and he couldn’t deal with that right now. He didn’t need kindness. Didn’t deserve it.

What he needed was a drink.

The bar was empty, save for a tired looking bartender with his back to Skulduggery, not that it mattered – Skulduggery knew that frame anywhere, knew that shaggy dark hair.

Hopeless raised his head and turned at the sound of the door shutting, and Skulduggery almost walked right back out of the bar when he saw his friend’s face. Hopeless had always been skinny, always looked tired, but not like this. Not gaunt, all sharp edges and dead eyes. Dead eyes that widened in shock when he processed who was standing in front of him.

Neither of them spoke as Hopeless silently set two glasses on the bar, filled them halfway with whiskey and pushed one towards Skulduggery.

Skulduggery took a seat at the bar without a word. The whiskey didn’t burn down his throat, not like it had before; didn’t take the edge off either.

Hopeless drained his glass, setting it down beside Skulduggery’s before pouring them both another shot. It wasn’t until the fourth that Hopeless said anything.

“You seen Ghastly or Erskine yet?”

There were a lot of questions Skulduggery had been expecting, most of them he didn’t have answers for, but that had not been one of them. He’d been preparing for something more along the lines of _how the fuck are you alive right now?_

Of course, this was Hopeless he was talking to, not Erskine.

“No, figured you would take it the best.”

Hopeless chucked lightly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The silence fell over them again, thick and heavy, until Hopeless reached out and covered one of Skulduggery’s cold hand with his own.

“We missed you, _amigo_.”

Skulduggery gave him a weak smile, and hoped it looked better than he felt. “How long was I gone for?” he asked, his voice raspy from disuse.

“Four months.”

Skulduggery didn’t know how to feel about that, about any of this. It felt like he’d been gone for a lot longer – decades, centuries – but he had nothing in his memories except for darkness. When he didn’t say anything, Hopeless continued. “Corrival pulled us out after we lost you. He wanted to keep us active, but Ghastly put his foot down. I haven’t seen him since then. Erskine comes around here a lot, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.”

“Mevolent?” Skulduggery asked darkly.

Hopeless made a face. “Still being a bastard. Gone a bit quieter though, sent Serpine out of town. We figured – well, Ghastly guessed that he was the one to …”

He trailed off, and Skulduggery didn’t blame him. There wasn’t really a good way to end that train of thought anyway.

“He was,” Skulduggery confirmed, “just so you know. He killed them.”

Hopeless didn’t try and touch him again, just nodded and refilled the glasses. This was why Skulduggery had come to him first; Hopeless had a way of knowing what people needed at any given moment. He knew when to stay close, when to talk, when to keep clear, when to be harsh and honest.

No one knew much about him, but Hopeless knew his friends, and he cared enough that it didn’t matter that none of them knew his real name.

Hopeless glanced at the clock. “Erskine will probably be here soon. Do you want me to call ahead and let him know?”

Skulduggery dragged a hand down his face. He knew it was unavoidable, that he’d have to have a reunion sooner or later, but when he’d crawled out of the river, his plans hadn’t extended much further than getting to Deadfalls and having a drink.

“No,” he said decisively, “but you could call Ghastly. Tell him to come as well. May as well kill two birds with one stone.”

When Hopeless disappeared out back to make the call, Skulduggery stared pensively at the remaining amount of amber liquid in his glass. Whiskey used to be a guilty pleasure, something guaranteed to make him loud and loose, something his wife hadn’t liked. It used to affect him after three or four shots. Now, on his fifth, Skulduggery still felt cold and empty.

He had felt that way ever since he had woken up underwater. He wondered how long the feeling would last.

Something told him it wasn’t going away anytime soon.


	2. Chapter One

**CHAPTER ONE**

 

 

“The old world is dying away, and the new world struggles to come forth: now is the time of monsters.”  
– _Antonio Gramsci_

 

 

**June, 1980. Roarhaven, Louisiana**

Major Corrival Deuce, formerly of the US Army, was filling in a crossword at his desk when a grim looking Eachan Meritorious walked into his office. Meritorious wasn’t that much older than Corrival, but he wore it better. His gray hair immaculate and full, suits that fitted him perfectly – no hint of a beer belly that Corrival had managed to acquire over the years.

“We have a situation,” Meritorious said, and tossed a newspaper onto Corrival’s desk.

 **THE SOUTH IS DYING** , the main headline read. **POLITICIAN GAINS RELIGIOUS TRACTION.** Corrival skimmed the rest of the article, his eyes landing on the words “revolutionary,” “cult” and “chosen ones" before finally landing on the politician in question: Mevolent.

He leaned back and gestured for Meritorious to take a seat opposite him. “Yes, it seems we do.”

Meritorious ran a hand through his hair. “They haven’t done anything illegal ‘round here, but they’re making me very nervous.”

“Religious extremists tend to have that effect on people,” Corrival said drily. Jonestown was still a recent memory for a lot of people. Over the last few years, they’d all seen more and more religious sects spring up until they’d finally coalesced into something far bigger than anyone had expected or prepared for.

“I need you to look into this,” Meritorious said, his voice low. Corrival knew then why Meritorious had come to him. Sure, he held a position in the mayoral system, but most everyone knew it was just for show. The real value in Corrival Deuce lay in his being a war vet.

Once the war had ended, veterans were scattered through every town in the country, struggling to live their own lives, and Corrival had been no different at first. The easiest option was to drink himself into a stupor every day – hardly an original method, but an effective one. Eventually, Meritorious with his worn but well–ironed suits and his small town pride had fished him out of the bar and bullied him into the office he now sat in. He hadn’t appreciated it at the time, and there were still days when he wanted nothing more than to slam the door to his office and never look back, but Meritorious had given him something he had gone without since the war: purpose.

“Quietly. This needs to be quiet,” Meritorious continued. “God forbid this blows up in our faces. We need people on the ground, people we can trust. We need to know when and where we need to act, because this isn’t going away on its own.”

Corrival agreed with that assessment well enough. This wasn’t just some bitter old man clutching at straws to keep his seat in power (and those were plentiful in the South). This was a man with genuine concern – and maybe fear – for both himself and the people of Roarhaven. And not without reason. Mevolent and his ilk were something new, made all the more dangerous by that.

Corrival liked Roarhaven, and Roarhaven liked him back, but it was more than that. It was almost offensive that he’d made it all the way through the war, dragged himself back to the South, and now that life could be fractured. He’d seen it happen time and again, the way fear rushed through people, forcing them to clamor for some sort of security or escape without knowing what they were getting into.

Men like Mevolent caused the fear and provided the escape.

Corrival was already running thinking of several names. Erskine Ravel. Ghastly Bespoke. _Maybe take in that Thurid Guild, the boy was just waiting to be thrown a bone._

“I’ve some people in mind. I’ll sort them out.”

That seemed to be enough of a guarantee for Meritorious. “See that it’s done.” He stood and left Corrival alone with his thoughts.

 

–

 

Bespoke Tailors didn’t stand out much, but everyone knew where to find it anyway. For as long anyone in Roarhaven could remember, Bespoke Tailors had been been there. Even in the height of the sixties, when black families were being driven out of town just for living in the South, let alone running a business, Bespoke had kept his doors open, kept serving the people who spat hate at him daily. When Meritorious had taken up office, he’d made a show of employing Bespoke Tailors, sending a clear message to the people of Roarhaven. As things settled, the townspeople seemed willing to swallow whatever they had against the colour of his skin for a damn good suit.

That was until Bespoke lost his wife in ‘75 and handed the deed to the shop over to his son, barely out of high school. No one saw Bespoke around the town since, just his boy, a quiet kid who called himself Ghastly. No one knew his real name, but that wasn’t exactly an odd thing in Roarhaven. People often joked that the names people gave their kids in their town must have been awful to begin with considering the nicknames they preferred.

Corrival had always liked Ghastly. The boy was talented and warm like his father, but smarter. He’d been thrown into the deep end, lost a mother and father all at once, and managed.  

The shop itself may have seen better days, and it was entirely too small to be supplying suits for the mayor and his council, but Ghastly had never once complained. And every time there was a rip, stain, or Meritorious felt like changing his design, Ghastly would pull through with another incredible suit, each more impressive than the last.

He was sitting at the counter when Corrival entered, stitching absently at a torn blazer while a gangly redhead was talking to him at a hundred miles an hour. The boy was perched on the end of the counter, all long legs and freckles, his words barely comprehensible behind his thick Irish accent (though Ghastly seemed to keep up, his only input was the occasional grunt or nod).

Corrival knew the redhead too, the oldest of the Pleasant boys, Irish immigrants that had only been in Roarhaven a decade, but had managed to collect all sorts of names for themselves, the most common being, “ _them Catholic boys that ain’t got two pennies to rub together to make a third_ ” or alternatively, " _those bastards."_

Like Ghastly, the Pleasant boy used some god–awful nickname rather than the name his mama gave him; something long and ridiculous like like Scrupulous or Slanderously or some other word that definitely wasn’t a real name.

Ghastly raised his head and gave Corrival a small nod. “I told Meritorious his blazer wouldn’t be ready for another two days.”

“Do I look like his delivery boy?”

The ghost of a smile passed over Ghastly’s face, pulling at the scars that ran down one side. Much like his real name, no one knew exactly what had happened, only that something had.  “How can I help you, Corrival?”

Corrival smiled back easily. “Who’s your friend?” he asked, avoiding Ghastly’s question for the time being, wanting to test the waters, phrase it right.

The Pleasant boy stuck out a hand, but didn’t bother to stand. “Skulduggery Pleasant, sir.”

As he shook his hand, Corrival sized the boy up. His hands were rough and calloused, but he was skinny. Obviously worked in some kind of job that required physical labour, but there wasn’t enough food going around his home for him to gain any kind of weight. But he was clean, and his clothes were in impeccable shape (Corrival suspected Ghastly had something to do with that). He carried himself with a sort of cocky confidence that could only be found in the young, the ones who think they got it all figured out.

“Where’re you from, son?”

Skulduggery grinned. “Dublin, sir. Moved here ten years ago.”

The kid was eager too, willing to give up information about himself without a moment's hesitation. Trusting. Still, there was something useful in trust, so long as you were the one to gain it first.

Corrival pulled over a waiting chair and sat down. “I’ve got an offer for you, Bespoke. Meritorious needs a small group of people to do a job for him, people who know this town and know how to keep an eye on things.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Corrival saw Pleasant lean forward, but he kept his eyes on Ghastly, who finally glanced up from his work and met his gaze.

“Are you asking me to spy on the good people of Roarhaven, Major?”

“Not all of them,” Corrival said, handing Ghastly the newspaper Meritorious had dropped on his desk that morning.

Pleasant finally stood, hovering over Ghastly’s shoulder as he read the papers. His eyes widened in surprise and he looked up at Corrival.

“Mevolent?”

Ghastly didn’t respond for a long moment, just took in all the information before setting the paper down. “This seems like no good thing. Especially if the wrong people found out.”

There was a beat of silence. The three men let the tension hang in the air, the kind of feeling that they were being listened to, and their very words could be sealing their fate. But after surviving a war – and a town like Roarhaven – Corrival had very little time for God, and even less for fate.

“I’m taking it in good faith that you aren’t one of those people.”

“It can’t just be us, though,” Pleasant said thoughtfully. “Who else are you thinking of?”

“Someone called Erskine Ravel,” he said, and noticed they both raised their eyebrows. “Do you know him?”

Skulduggery’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “Who doesn’t know Erskine Ravel?”

Corrival narrowed his eyes. That attitude was going to get him a beating one day, if it hadn’t already. “Is that a yes or a no, Pleasant?”

Ghastly exchanged a look with Pleasant, who only gave a one shouldered shrug. “Alright, Major. What would you have us do?”

 

–

 

The Ravel mansion stunk to high hell of new money.

Everything was as it should be, antiques and collectables all sitting in their expected places, the interior planned right down to the deep red walls and marble surfaces of the ballroom; but it was too clean. Underneath whatever expensive incense Missus Ravel had filled the house with, there was no lingering damp. There were no scuffs on the floors, no fraying thread, no faded curtains. The piano was too well tuned. Every piece of furniture was pristine, built brand new to look old.

It would have felt desperate, if her son didn’t fit the mould of the Roarhaven boy so goddamn well.

Erskine Ravel didn’t live in the mansion anymore, too busy to live so far out of town, but he still showed up for every social event his mother threw. All he had to do was glide into the ballroom, suit immaculate and an easy smile on his face, and suddenly, no one in the room was wondering where the Ravel family came from.

Corrival had first come across Erskine Ravel two years ago, when he was twenty one and desperate to get a foot into local government. Meritorious had just been re–elected, and Corrival was wading through about ten levels of admin duties, when this over enthusiastic kid, fresh out of college had practically begged to work for him. Of course, Corrival had heard of him far before they were properly introduced. Everyone knew the Ravels, and how Erskine’s parents had moved to Roarhaven from Pakistan in the early fifties. The two of them were young and reckless, armed with nothing but a fortune and sheer force of will.

Against all odds, the Ravels had managed to make a name for themselves, Erskine’s father taking their fortune and making smart investments in the town, his mother doing her best to play the part of a Southern housewife. But it was Erskine himself that sealed the deal, with his charming smile and genuine Louisiana accent, no one could refuse him.

Erskine was sitting at one of the tables to the side, surrounded by guests who were hanging off his words like a congregation to a sermon. Corrival lingered, smiling politely and making conversation when spoken to, but mostly, he was watching. Erskine still hadn’t noticed him, too absorbed in whatever story he was weaving –– he was shameless in exploiting the table’s attention, and they were careless in giving it away.

A woman in a beautiful black dress, likely one of Missus Ravel’s friends judging from her skin tone, slid away from the table, and Corrival slid into her empty chair. When Erskine finally caught his eyes, his expression shifted slightly, almost unreadable, but Corrival caught it. It was a sobering movement, his smile becoming more controlled, posture more respectful, the subtle acknowledgement of someone that pulled a superior rank over him.

“Major Deuce,” Erskine said, raising his glass, “we’re honoured to have you join us tonight.”

Corrival smiled tightly as the rest of the table raised their glasses. If he had it his way, he would strike ‘Major’ from his record, along with all the too loud memories of gunfire and airstrikes that came with it. “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Ravel.”

After they had all taken a polite sip, Corrival stood. “I’m afraid I need to steal the man of the hour away. He never gets a moment's rest from work.”

Erskine placed a hand on his chest, laughing. “You’re smothering me,” he said to Corrival as he gently disentangled himself from the woman hanging off his arm and followed him out of the room.

As soon as they were outside, far away from prying eyes and ears, Erskine lit a cigarette and held out the carton to Corrival. He’d smoked like a train while he was in Vietnam – they all had – but he’d mostly kicked the habit since he’d come back. Still, he liked to indulge himself every now and then.

“My mother will be absolutely thrilled that you came tonight,” Erskine said, looking out over the estate. Most of Roarhaven’s rich – the Guilds, the Sorrows, the Ravels – lived outside of the town proper, their mansions one after the other. Pretty much self sufficient, with maids and gardeners and sweeping drives that constantly needed maintenance. The Ravels mansion had an impeccable garden and in the distance, you could see the lights of the next one.

Corrival smiled.  He liked Mrs Ravel as much as the next person. Which was to say, he liked her a lot. “Unfortunately, for you, we do need to talk about work.”

Erskine raised an eyebrow, finally turning to Corrival. The boy was pretty, there was no denying that. Pretty in the same way China Sorrows was pretty, a kind of beauty that walked alongside wealth. They both had the same immaculate clothes that fit them like they were tailor made, which of course, they were. “That sounds ominous.”

“It ain’t a walk in the park, I’ll give you that.” He sighed “Meritorious wants some people to look into Mevolent.”

Erskine’s only response was to finish his cigarette and shove his hands in his pockets, so Corrival rehashed his speech to Ghastly. “We need people who know Roarhaven, who know the people here, and know how to be subtle. It’s not even a real _job_ , it’s more of a security thing. We just need people in our back pocket to look into things that seem suspicious.”

A grin spread across Erskine’s face. “You mean, like spies?”

Corrival resist the urge to throttle the kid. “No, and don’t go thinking this is some James Bond shit where you wear fancy suits and sleep with beautiful women to get information. This is just a precaution. In case they start heading our way.”

Erskine deflated a little, but he was still grinning. “Who else are you asking?”

Corrival took a deep drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out. “Ghastly Bespoke, and his friend, The Pleasant boy. I was thinking about going to Thurid Guild next, probably only want to keep it at four, and more and–”

“No.”

Corrival glanced at him, an eyebrow raised. “Pardon?”

Erskine looked apologetic, but not enough to stop him from talking. “Not Guild. He’s arrogant and loud and beyond that, I just don’t like him. Besides, I’ve got someone who would be so much better. He knows this town inside out, and he’s smart and quiet and–”

“Alright,” Corrival said, waving his hands. “Alright. I trust you enough to take care of this.”

 

–

 

It had been raining all morning.

Eachan Meritorious had been told as a young boy that rain in the morning was never a good sign. He’d just accepted it at the time, never thought to ask why, which left him vexed when the question popped into his head that morning as he stepped into the town hall. He manoeuvred his briefcase into the opposite hand so he could slip out of his sodden coat, and dropped his newspaper into the puddle gathering on the floor beneath him.

As far as he was concerned, rain at any time was never a good thing.

He grabbed the newspaper, ignoring the ink smudging on his palms and headed up the stairs to his office. As he passed by one of the rooms they used for meetings, he heard raised voices inside, and paused, frowning. He glanced at his watch, wondering if he’d missed a meeting, but no, there was no possibility of that.

He was about to nudge the door open when Corrival Deuce stepped out, and Meritorious stared at him in confusion. Corrival met his gaze evenly. It was impossible to surprise the man. He seemed to accept whatever was put in front of him in a moment, ready to react, and most of the time, do it with a smile. If he hadn’t gone away to the war, Corrival could have had his office.

“What’s going on in there?” Meritorious raised his eyebrows as the voices inside grew louder.

“It’s the, uh... ‘people on the ground.’” It seemed difficult for Corrival to say anything without a small smile on his face. “Fill them in on that letter you got.”

He frowned. “People on the ground?”

“That you asked me to put together,” Deuce replied, his voice carrying a certain weight to it this time, and it clicked. The Mevolent matter. The Mevolent matter which, in the last week, had moved past the plateau of being merely worrisome into downright terrifying. Meritorious had received a fax two days ago about a death in a town two hours from Roarhaven. A town that was owned mostly by Mevolent. The thick band of loyalty that ran through this side of the Mississippi meant what was a threat to one of them was a threat to them all meant that a town two hours north of that one heard about it as surely as Meritorious did.

“You should see who we’ve got,” Corrival added. _Sly_ , Meritorious thought. He doubted Deuce would’ve been as keen for him to meet whoever was in that room if he hadn’t happened upon them by chance, but all the same, he gestured for Corrival to open the door.

The room was normally filled with wealthy white businessmen from around town, or their well–dressed, well–to–do wives. The image in front of him was a far cry from that.

Four boys were spread around a table, caught in the middle of an argument about the fastest way to get from Roarhaven to Baton Rouge. They glanced up as Meritorious stepped into the room. Two of them looked so skinny they might blow over in a breeze. One of them was lounging against the wall like he owned the place, taking in the room with an appreciative eye, and the tallest of the group looked like he’d been plowing fields his entire life, even though Meritorious knew for a fact that he was a tailor.

He stared at them for a moment and felt their eyes following him, appraising him, waiting for him to react. Corrival was behind him, about to follow him in when Meritorious turned and shooed him back outside, firmly shutting the door behind him.

“This is not what I’d in mind, Corrival,” he said with just enough warning in his tone to let him know that he better start explaining himself.

“With all due respect, you didn’ ask me to find the sort of people you had in mind.” His voice had turned steely. “They’re smart. Versatile. That Pleasant boy may have the quickest mind this side of the Mississippi.”

“They’re practically children.”

“I was their age when I enlisted,” Deuce shot back, “and I managed just fine. Made it back here in one piece.”

Meritorious shook his head. “We’re not going into a war zone, Major.” Corrival’s face tightened at the title. “We’re dealing with a time bomb here. One wrong move and everyone we know is drinking the Kool Aid, and I can’t let that happen.”

“That’s why they’re going to work.” Eagerly, now. “They’re nothing like Mevolent’s expecting. None of them but Ravel know the lay of his land, so they’ll be playing a different game to him. Catch him by surprise. You know we can’t do this, so they’ll have to.”

A long moment passed between them. Meritorious tried to think of anyone else in town, but he knew Corrival was the right man (the only man) to handle this. While he was certainly capable and respected among the townspeople, he’d always been a little unconventional, and that was before he came back from a war in a country most of Roarhaven didn’t even know existed.

Maybe that’s what they needed. Times were changing, and he needed to change with it. “I still don’t like it,” he said warningly, but gestured for Corrival to open the door again. The other man nodded, every inch the soldier.

“They’ll be worth their salt, Eachan. You have my word on that.”

Meritorious stepped back into the room, and the four boys glanced up at him again. After a moment, the tallest boy raised a hand at him in greeting. “Hello, Mister Meritorious.” It was odd to see Ghastly Bespoke outside of his shop. He was far too well dressed for the occasion, but Meritorious had never seen any of the Bespoke family wearing anything less than impeccable. His hands were curled into loose fists, as though he didn’t know what to do with them when he didn’t have a piece of cloth between them. He’d known Ghastly since he was knee high, kept an eye on him when his mother had disappeared into the bayou and never come back.

So there was one person here he could put stock in, at least.

The one who’d been lounging against the wall stepped forward to shake his hand. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Mayor,” he said with an easy smile, guiding him into an empty seat before Meritorious had even realised he was being led somewhere. With anyone else, that might have been it, but Meritorious had time for Erskine Ravel. Not as much time as Deuce seemed to have for him, but enough time that they’d met half a dozen times, and he was impressed. He wasn’t as dark as Ghastly but his brown skin was definitely not a common sight in Roarhaven, something he’d had to put twice as much effort into getting around, and succeeded.

The third boy, Meritorious thought he knew by sight, but couldn’t quite place where. Dark hair, dark watchful eyes, three day old stubble. He’d seemed content enough to watch the scene unfold in front of him, quietly enough, interested enough in the scene unfolding in front of him but with none of the eagerness to please that was practically dripping off of Erskine.

Erskine saw him staring at the other boy, and jumped the gun before anyone could say anything. “He’s with me. His name is Hopeless.” Not such a great omen, then, but the boy simply smirked.

His eyes drifted to the last member of the group, a gangly redhead that met his gaze fearlessly, none of this dipping of the eyes or obsequious smiles that Meritorious had become used to. He didn’t know the kid personally, but he knew _of_ him, him and his Irish family who had emigrated to Roarhaven a decade ago and spent every day since then working their fingers to the bone to make ends meet. He respected that, respected people who were willing to work hard.

“All we wanted you boys to do is swing by Ratoath to see what’s goin’ on down there. It shouldn’t be too serious.” A tight lipped smile. “I’d go myself but this town doesn’t run on its own.”

The redhead raised an eyebrow. “The good Major mentioned someone had died. Are we at a point where that’s not considered “serious” anymore?”

Meritorious narrowed his eyes. The Pleasant boy. He should have known he’d be the one to cause trouble.

“Someone died, that’s true. But we don’t know the circumstances, don’t even know if this will have any effect on us at all. That’s why we’re sending you there. You don’t need to get pushy with the locals, just ask around, act concerned, be polite.”

When no one responded, he stood and pushed his chair in. “I imagine Major Deuce can handle it from here,” he said, giving each of them a long hard look. “It isn’t just your necks on the line from here on out.”

“And by the way,” he said, pausing by the door, “the fastest way to get to Baton Rouge from here is through Gretna.”

He left the room to the sound of Erskine Ravel whooping victoriously and smacking Pleasant on the shoulder. Meritorious shook his head as he pulled the door shut, and prayed to God he wasn’t dooming them all.


	3. Chapter Two

**CHAPTER TWO**

 

“Rummaging in our souls, we often dig up something that ought to have lain there unnoticed.”   
–  _ Leo Tolstoy _

 

**June, 1980. Ratoath, Louisiana.**

Ghastly didn’t mind waiting; he had put up with it a lot throughout his life. When he was a teenager, he spent a lot of time waiting outside the principal’s office with Skulduggery, often with a bloodied nose or bruise blossoming on his face. When he first started working for his father, he had waited patiently to be trusted enough to work on the clothes himself. And when his mother went missing years ago, Ghastly had been waiting for her every day since.

But where Ghastly’s patience had improved further over the years as they grew up, Skulduggery had grown more and more restless. He wasn’t subtle either. He didn’t do anything typical, like shaking his leg or tapping his fingers, it was more blunt than that.

“This is boring,” Skulduggery announced to the table. “We’re investigating a murder! I thought it would be more fun than this. Isn’t detective work supposed to be fun?”

Hopeless shook his head. “Someone died, Pleasant.”

“I fail to see your point.” 

Erskine’s head was resting on Hopeless’ shoulder and he looked like he was about to fall asleep right then and there before Hopeless pushed a cup of coffee towards him. The diner they were in was in a small town about one hundred and fifty miles west of Roarhaven. It was an almost completely unremarkable town, with the same shitty diners that served the same shitty coffee as in any other small town in Louisiana. The only remarkable thing about Ratoath was the fact that, a few days earlier, a failed businessman set his house on fire with himself inside.

The death didn’t appear too suspicious on the surface, Vindick Leather had been a successful business owner in the early seventies, co–owning most of Ratoath’s industry with his business partner. There wasn’t much in the town that didn’t happen without Leather’s say so. That was, until the money ran out in late ‘79 and Leather lost everything. There had been rumours about a deal going south with his partner, who had left the company months earlier, but nothing concrete, so Leather’s apparent suicide hadn’t come as too much of a shock to anyone that knew off him.

It wouldn’t have shocked Ghastly either, until Corrival informed them that Leather’s business partner had been Mevolent.

So they had all driven out to Ratoath in Skulduggery’s Bentley – a wedding gift from his father, for a wedding where Ghastly had been the only one in attendance – in the early hours of the morning, something Erskine had protested fairly heavily about.

It had taken them thirty minutes before they’d managed to find anywhere that was open that early. They were greeted with row after row of closed down stores, one with a boarded up window and a faded **NO ENTRY** sign plastered to the front. Eventually, they spotted the diner and all four of them hurried inside, grateful to be out of the summer heat.

“This is  _ boring _ ,” Skulduggery repeated when he didn’t get an answer. “What exactly are we supposed to do? Just sit here and hope someone will drop all the information on our lap?”

Erskine looked up sleepily. “Usually works for me.”

“No, we’ll just keep an eye out for anything odd.” Ghastly tried to keep his voice even. He was a patient man but Skulduggery seemed intent on testing all of those limits, all the time. “If we go looking for trouble, the only odd thing in this town will be us.”

They already stuck out like a sore thumb. The beginning of a bad joke.  _ A black man walks into a bar.. _ . Ghastly got enough wary looks in Roarhaven; he didn’t need them in an unfamiliar, unsettling town.

Skulduggery looked as though he wanted to continue arguing, when the waitress who’d brought them coffee earlier approached the table with more before asking them what they’d like to eat. Skulduggery continued to glare at Ghastly while she took their orders, a glare he pointedly ignored.

The waitress – her name badge read ‘Harmony’ – was about to leave when Erskine slipped on a charming smile, leaning forward in his seat, all previous signs of fatigue vanished.

“Bit quiet here this morning?” he asked conversationally.

Harmony shrugged. “It’s still early, we usually stay pretty quiet. You boys are actually some of the first visitors we’ve had through here in awhile.”

Ghastly raised his head. “You mostly only get locals here?”

Nodding, Harmony collected their menus. “Ratoath is kinda out of the way, not many people travel through. And traffic has been especially dead since the fire.”

“Fire?” Erskine asked, his face the picture of innocence.

Harmony raised her eyebrows. “You don’t know?” When none of them replied, she lowered her voice. “A local man’s house burnt down earlier this week, Vindick Leather. He was pretty well known around here, owned a lot of places. He died in the fire.”

As Ghastly was about to apologise, Skulduggery cut over the top of him. “What started the fire?”

Harmony looked slightly taken aback, but answered nonetheless. “I’m not entirely sure. I think the official cause was – suicide.” She hesitated slightly on the word. “A lot of his places ran out of money and closed down.”

Ghastly could tell she was getting uncomfortable with the conversation, but Skulduggery showed no signs of slowing down.

“Interesting, have you ever heard of a man named Joshua Mevolent?”

Harmony frowned. “The name rings a bell? I’m sorry, what does he have to do with–”

“Nothing,” Ghastly interrupted, kicking Skulduggery’s shin under the table. “Sorry, my friend here can be a bit excitable.”

Harmony nodded warily, turning and heading back towards the kitchen. Once she was out of earshot, Ghastly turned to glare at Skulduggery.

“What the hell is your problem?”

Skulduggery didn’t answer, just sat back in his chair and folded his arms. 

Their food was eventually brought out by a different waitress, one that didn’t bother trying to make conversation, and didn’t even return Erskine’s grateful smile. They ate in silence, Skulduggery stabbing at his pancakes a little more viciously than necessary, while Erskine and Hopeless watched him with matching concerned expressions. Ghastly had to keep reminding himself that they didn’t know Skulduggery the way he did and that he would finish sulking them moment his attention was diverted to something else; it was only a matter of waiting.

Ghastly had almost finished eating when Skulduggery finally found something else to occupy his attention. A man wearing a worn flannel shirt and faded jeans walked into the diner, his pace not slowing until he reached their table.

“What’s this I hear about you lot harassing my staff?”

Ghastly shot a glare at Skulduggery, one that made it very clear that he was not allowed to talk. “Sir, there was a bit of a misunderstanding, see–”

“We were just curious about the fire,” Erskine interrupted. “Our waitress mentioned that’s why you haven’t been busy lately. The thing is, the name sounded familiar, which is why we pressed further. We didn’t mean to upset anyone.”

Ghastly blinked. He knew that Erskine was a charmer and knew how to get what he wanted, but he had never seen him in action. He had never heard that Louisiana charm roll off him. It was almost terrifying, how at ease it made him feel; Ghastly was sure a voice like that could get him out of all kinds of trouble.

The diner owner didn’t buy it. “Oh yeah? Whose name sounded familiar?”

“Vindick Leather, he was a business partner of someone we’re looking for.” There was no hesitation. Erskine knew exactly what he was doing. “Joshua Mevolent.”

The man’s lip curled, and his stance shifted into something more aggressive. “I don’t know how you know that man, and frankly, I don’t care. We don’t like visitors around here, so now I want you to get out of my goddamn diner.”

Ghastly moved forward, ready to apologise, but the man shook his head.

“I don’t want to hear it. If you’re asking questions about Mevolent, the only person in town that’ll talk to you is the pastor, but I don’t want your patronage here.”

 

–

 

The only church in Ratoath was a modest one, located at the very edge of the small town. It was an olden wooden building, painted an off white that looked as though it had seen better days. Ghastly didn’t like to hang around churches as a general rule – he always found them too imposing and overflowing with some kind of energy that was far too old and eerie to truly set him at ease– but this church instantly flew to the top of his ‘avoid’ list.

There was nothing particularly offsetting about it, no obvious signs of danger. It was more of a feeling, the kind of thing that hangs around and settles after a tragedy, like the way abandoned buildings hold the sorrows they’ve witnessed inside.

Ghastly glanced over at Skulduggery, who was assessing the church calmly, hands stuffed in his pockets like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“We going inside?” Erskine asked, but even he seemed hesitant. 

The interior of the church made it seem bigger than it really was, all white walls and deep mahogany panels. Evangelical Baptists flooded the north of Louisiana, bringing with them a habit for making plain and ugly churches.

It was quiet inside. The only noise came from their footsteps as they made their way to the altar. That was one thing Ghastly found to be consistent throughout most of the small–town–South; the quiet. He had been to Baton Rouge and New Orleans a few times, long enough to realise he preferred the peace of Roarhaven. Well, no. Peace was the wrong word. Familiarity maybe, something comfortable and worn. People knew where they fit in Roarhaven, there was never any doubt about that, and there was something satisfying in knowing you belonged.

“Can I help you boys?” 

They were almost at the altar when a short older man called out to them from the back of the church.

No one spoke for a moment, each of them shooting the other skittish, almost sheepish glances before Erskine stepped forward.

“We were just looking for,” he paused, looking for the right word, “answers.”

The old man smiled gently. “Well, the doors of the church are always open to those who are in need of Christ’s love. What troubling you, my son?”

Erskine looked thoroughly out of his depth. “Uh, well–– you see, I’m not––” he fumbled to get a coherent reply out while Hopeless sniggered at his failure before continuing to walk to the altar.

Ghastly cut in to save them. “I’m sorry, sir. Are you the pastor here?”

The older man straightened up, smiling still. “Ah yes, forgive me. I’m not so used to having to introduce myself, you see. We don’t tend to get many visitors around here.” He approached the group, quickly and neatly, his robes swishing against the floor. “I’m Reverend Hall.”

“So we’ve heard,” Skulduggery muttered, and Ghastly elbowed him in the side.

“Reverend, we came out here today because we had a few questions that no one seems to have the answer for,” Ghastly started, picking his words carefully. “There’s someone that’s been causing a bit of concern back in our town, and we’ve been trying to find someone who knows him, so we can understand what he’s doing.”

Hall’s smile faltered slightly. “What is this man’s name?”

The question hung in the air, and no one really wanted to address it. Ghastly knew that if he looked across to Skulduggery, he’d just shrug and leave it to Ghastly anyway, so he decided to bite the bullet.

“Mevolent.”

Hall nodded slowly, and Ghastly couldn’t help but feel sorry for the elderly pastor. Whatever Mevolent had done to the people of Ratoath, Hall seemed to have seen the worst of it. He didn’t explode with anger like the man in the diner; it was more harrowing. The warmth he had radiated when they entered was gone, replaced with a cold kind of sadness.

“Yes, I knew Joshua,” Hall said, his voice much heavier than before. “He came to Ratoath several years ago, with big ideas and an infectious personality. I assume he’s out pulling the same tricks in your town?”

Ghastly nodded, and Hall smiled sadly.

“I can’t say I’m surprised. That boy used us as a stepping stone, I knew that it would only be a matter of time before he set his sights on somewhere bigger.”

“Anything you could tell us about him, we would truly appreciate.”

Hall studied them all one by one before making a decision. “I won’t talk about this in the sanctuary. Follow me.”

 

–

 

“Joshua came here in 1971,” Hall started once they were outside the church, in the garden. “Right out of some fancy college up north. His name was unfamiliar, no one knew where he was, and I still don’t know exactly where it was he came from. Not that it mattered, however, within a few days, he had the whole town wrapped around his little finger. He was flush with money too, and soon enough, almost every business on the main street had his name in their books one way or another. He was easy to like, easy to trust.

“But his wealth and his charisma didn’t bring him to me. He had an appetite for knowledge, and every other night he was inviting me over for dinner to discuss a new way of understanding God’s Word, which would have been almost troubling if it didn’t seem so sincere. But it was just wonderful for me to see, that kind of belief in one so young.

The way Hall spoke of him, it was clear he was still punishing himself for ever trusting him.

“I suppose I let that overshadow the things that didn’t seem quite–– quite right. He started to take a great interest in the Book of Revelation and was constantly pushing me for any resources I could find him that would offer new analyses, new interpretations. But I remember the first time he paused in the middle of reciting a verse to me and just said ‘the South is dying.’ He never really expanded on it, but he mentioned it again more than once and it stuck in my mind.

“He left Ratoath a year later, and I haven’t heard from him since, but I still see the devastation he left in his wake. When he left, so did the money. And oh, that was fine for a while, he left his own men in charge of the businesses. But the businesses dried up and the men started disappearing and we were left with handfuls of abandoned buildings instead. Now, I don’t know how he  _ knew _ that everything was going downhill, but he managed to get out before it did.”

Hall finished with an angry shake of his head, staring at the ground.

“He didn’t tell you he was leaving?” Ghastly asked.

Hall scoffed. “He didn’t  _ tell _ me, per se, but he did leave me a note. Slid it under my door one morning before I woke up. It just had a line from the Book of Revelation, shook me right to my core when I read it.”

“What did it say?”

Hall turned around to face the four of them, and he looked like the story had aged him several years.

“Do not be afraid of what you are about to suffer.”

 

–

 

It was late in the evening when they started the drive back to Roarhaven. Erskine had fallen asleep the second the engine started, and Hopeless sat calmly beside him, watching the sky darken to black.

In the front, Ghastly was poring over several books the Reverend had left them with it. They had been Mevolent’s and he’d marked and scrawled notes on the pages. The notes, however, looked to be written in Russian. 

Ghastly ran his fingers over them, feeling where the pen had pressed into the page, before sighing. “What do you think the chances are of translating these?” he asked Skulduggery.

Skulduggery didn’t react, didn’t even acknowledge that he’d spoken but he shifted his grip on the steering wheel. Ghastly shot a quick glance over his shoulder to see that Hopeless had since fallen asleep on Erskine’s shoulder before rounding on Skulduggery and glaring at him.

“No.”

Skulduggery kept his eyes on the road as he protested. “I didn’t even say–”

“I know who you’re thinking of, and the answer is  _ no _ .”

“Ghastly, she’s the only person we know who speaks Russian. We’d be stupid not to–”

Ghastly shook his head. “Erskine and his parents have travelled a lot. There’s a chance they might know some Russian, or know someone who does.”

“A  _ chance _ . With her, it’s a definite.”

Ghastly threw up his hands. “By all means, Skulduggery, hand over some of the most sensitive information to someone who’s in Mevolent’s back pocket.”

That was enough to make Skulduggery fall silent. Ghastly sighed and turned his attention back to the books on his lap. There were three in total; the most heavily annotated one being a Bible, predictably dense with notes all through the last few pages. The other two were more curious; Dante’s  _ Inferno _ and the play  _ Doctor Faustus _ . Reverend Hall had mentioned that in the few times he had visited Mevolent’s house in Ratoath, the whole place had been filled with books, each other them in various states of disrepair. The chances of the books he left behind in Hall’s office being of any use were slim, but the fact that he wrote his notes in Russian would at least be a point of interest for Meritorious.

“Why Russian?” Ghastly muttered, mostly to himself, but Skulduggery still felt the need to answer him. 

“If only we knew someone who spoke Russian and could give us the answers we needed.” 

Ghastly didn’t even bother to grace him with a response.

There was a cold and dangerous past between Skulduggery and China Sorrows, one Ghastly didn’t entirely understand, and wasn’t really sure he wanted to. China had flirted heavily with freedom, like her brother, but had ended up snapping back to the rigid, but familiar confines of her family name. Ghastly couldn’t really blame her, after all, she was a Sorrows. A name like that was a heavy thing to carry in Roarhaven.

But Skulduggery hadn’t let her go back so easy. There was something there, something that still lingered, and Ghastly didn’t want to ask what it was. Sometimes it was easier to stomach Skulduggery when his darker parts remained a mystery.

Also, on a more basic level, China’s family scared Ghastly. He wasn’t too proud to admit that there was something incredibly threatening about a family dynasty in Roarhaven, there since the beginning. China, with her expansive semi–private library and cold blue eyes, was quite possibly the most terrifying person in Roarhaven. 

Naturally, that was part of the reason Skulduggery was so captivated by her.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER THREE**

 

“. . . all ended with her eyes. Hell, Purgatory, Paradise.”   
–  _ Dante _

 

 

**June, 1980. Roarhaven, Louisiana.**

 

 

China Sorrows had made it her business to always  _ know _ what was going on in her town, even if it meant acquiring a few enemies. Her grandmother had always favoured her over her brother, but not for the shallow, trivial reasons her mother did.

_ You know the true value of knowledge, child. _ Mama Sorrows had told her when she was only fourteen.  _ You know how it makes people fear you, how they will do anything to protect their secrets. The greatest weapon a woman can wield is her words.  _

There were very few things China coveted, but her grandmother’s praise had always been one of them.

She walked the length of her library, a stack of priceless books in her arms. It was early, the rest of Roarhaven was still asleep, but China had always liked it best when she watched the sun creep in through the ceiling to floor windows that covered the entire east wall. It felt like a secret, and God knows she loved to collect those.

By the time the library finally started to warm up, China had already made her way through sorting and categorising most of the new books she had received at the beginning of summer. Her project had involved one of the most large scale genealogy maps Roarhaven had ever seen, tracing almost every single family’s genealogy tree in as much detail as she could. The project had posed as a heritage donation to the people of Roarhaven, but its true intentions were far less charitable.

China stood back, admiring the map that spanned almost half of her office walls. Thread connected several pins in different states, different countries, connecting family ties all over the world.

_ Mevolent will be pleased _ , she thought bitterly.

She walked close to the map, fingers absently trailing a blood red line that ran from Roarhaven to Ratoath, and then abruptly trailed off. Mevolent had made a point of refusing to tell China where he was from, and his incomplete line bothered her more than she liked to let on.

Knowledge was her domain, and not having it frustrated her beyond belief. 

The girl she employed to look after the library during the week to let China attend to whatever business she had would arrive in a few minutes. China examined her nails, thinking of what more she had to do and came up with nothing. She would be at a loose end. When the waifish light–haired assistant turned up, China almost considered telling her to go back home and she’d see to the library herself.

But that would mean all kinds of opportunities for small talk, and it was already bad enough that China couldn’t remember the girl’s name.

 

–

 

Back in her own study, China wandered around restlessly. Her fingers were casually latched in the pages of a book, but she didn’t even want to attempt reading it. She needed something to do. She didn’t like all the space and time in her head when it wasn’t occupied. Eventually, her eyes lit upon a tapestry of the Sorrows’ family tree. It hung proudly on the wall, a dynasty sketched out in gold on dark blue fabric. 

She knew her own position off by heart, would still be able to find the spot even if the hanging was pulled down. China was vain even as a child, and she had loved to trace the ornate calligraphy, delicate letters spelling out her name deliberately and without mistake.  _ Here I am, firstborn and fairest _ .  

There was a knock at the front door, muffled from the study and  _ that _ was odd. China knew most comings and goings at the Sorrows’ mansion before they happened. She set the book down and padded out of the study to open it, curious and aloof. 

In the doorway stood a tall Irish boy with a scowl on his face that said he'd rather be anywhere but there, and yet, there he was. 

China didn't even think before she spoke, she just reacted. “Can I help you with something, Pleasant? It's just that you're dirtying my doorstep right now and we do  _ so  _ much to keep it clean.”

His scowl changed into a smug smile as he pushed past her into the house without ask or invitation. With anyone else, she would have been already making plans to ruin them before they left the estate, but this was just the way it was with them. 

He walked into her foyer, glancing up at the high ceiling, something she'd noticed some time ago that he always did. “I’d say it's nice to see you China, but it never is.” He turned back to face her as she closed the door firmly behind her, leaning against the wall like he owned the place. “Surprised that you're up this early, and in sunlight, no less. Thought you might’ve burst into flames by now.” 

Her lip curled. When she hadn't seen him for a while (and it had been a while this time, she had made sure of that) she tended to forget how strong his accent was, how harshly it stood out against everything else in this town, this house, her life. 

“It’s eleven o’clock, Pleasant, in case you don't know how to read a clock. Hardly what you'd call early.”

When she moved to step towards him, he gave her a jaunty smile and stepped backwards down the hallway on the left, grinning at her the entire time she stalked after him. By the time they were in her study, China had thought of ten new of ways to kill Skulduggery Pleasant. 

He snorted. “I learnt how to read a clock before you were born,” and now she scowled. He never missed an opportunity to remind her he was four years older than her. “I just thought you rich types didn't begin your days until  at least three o’clock, lest we think you had to plow fields to make your living or something.” His skin wasn't dark, but it was covered in freckles, his faded white shirt rolled up to his forearms. There were freckles on his face as well, on his cheekbones and his nose and framing very green eyes. 

He caught her gaze on him, and smirked. “Either that, or you're all vampires.” He sprawled on one of the armchairs in her library.  _ Eleven ways to kill him _ .

“Can I help you with something?” she asked the same question from the doorway. He shifted and she saw a small book in his hands, leather bound and falling apart. He waggled it at her and she saw it was a bible.

“Praying for your soul? You need it.”

He scoffed. “I would have been praying for yours, but it’s a lost cause,” he jabbed back, but there wasn’t as much heart in it. Instead, his attention focused on the bible, turning it over and over. 

China had always been able to read him, just as he’d always been able to read her. It was a game between them, to see how much they could keep from the other. Most of the time, as a person who had lived her entire life knowing more than other people and looking down on them for it, it was incredibly frustrating. Most things about him were incredibly frustrating.

But sometimes, it was helpful. “Do you want to give that to me?” she said in a low voice, knowing that he wanted to. His glanced up, almost surprised, like she’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t be.

Instead of replying, he passed it over to her with more hesitation than she’d ever seen of him before. He still had a lot of reservations about doing this, but he needed her.

Their fingers brushed as she took it from him and she forced herself to ignore his eyes on her, wanting her to acknowledge it.

She opened the book, turning the delicate pages very gently until she saw writing in the margins. Not in English. A Cyrillic alphabet. 

_ Ah.  _ She smiled.  _ So that was why he wanted her _ . 

“I take it they didn’t teach Russian in Dublin,” she said, and his scowl came back. She knew he was fast and smart and could have taught himself it easily, but he had no patience for anything that took him longer than a second to deal with.

Plus, there would always be the world between them, a world that consisted of what she had been offered, and that he hadn’t.

“So,” she said finally moving to sit down, her finger still latched in the page. “Can I help you with something?” she asked for the third time as she tucked her feet up under her.

“Oh, as if I’m going to ask you for a favour,” he said, aiming for unattached and blithe, failing miserably. 

She glanced between the page and him, a plan half forming in her head, her mind cast back to the map at the library in town. “If I translate this and tell you what it says, will you leave my house?” Any warmth that was between them, the familiar jibes and almost playfulness, was now gone.

He narrowed his eyes. The fact he was unhappy with this entire situation was written all over his face, but the same need that had driven him to her house was still there, so he stood up and walked over to where she was sitting.

“You better not fuck with me, China.” His voice was as cold as hers, now. “There’s a lot riding on this.”

There was a lot she forgot about Skulduggery Pleasant in the months she hadn’t seen him, and most of it was on purpose.

She had forgotten how tall he was as well.

“Close the door on your way out,” she called as he stalked out of the library. 

After he let it slam behind him – she would have expected nothing less – she walked over to the phone on her desk, setting the bible down beside it.

She dialled a number from memory, cradling the phone against her shoulder. “Nefarian Serpine,” she said, and idly turned the pages, seeing even more notes scrawled beside the verses. Entire sections were blacked out.

“Hello?”

China’s lip curled when she heard his voice. She didn’t like the man, wouldn’t be having anything to do with him at all if she could have it her way, but sometimes, personal sacrifices had to be made.

“No time for pleasantries, Serpine. I’ve come across something that will definitely be of interest to you. And you can have it.” She kept her tone light, wanting to play her cards right. “For a price, that is.”

 

–

 

The dress was too tight around her thighs, and China couldn’t help wishing that her family used Bespoke Tailors. It was a futile idea, of course. China’s grandmother would never come out and forbid the family from acting against her wishes, but everyone knew the consequences of associating with any of “the mayor’s people”, as she liked to put it.

China thought of the family tapestry, the way Mama Sorrows kept a tight leash on every single golden thread that spun across it. 

Not that it mattered, the tightness was something only China herself noticed. All that everyone else in the room saw was a gorgeous twenty year old woman in a striking red dress. 

The Vengeous home was large – though not as large as the Sorrows. The thought wasn’t even conscious; it was second nature to compare everything to herself, and find everything else wanting. She had no idea why these people even bothered to attempt subtlety when it came to displaying their wealth – they always failed miserably.

A town over from Roarhaven, China had left early in the morning, revelling the opportunity to escape home for the day. It wasn’t as though she wasn’t free to leave the town whenever she pleased, it just always felt as though she needed an  _ excuse _ . 

She moved among the guests, offering a polite greeting or a soft smile until her mouth ached and the door to the balcony became a welcome relief. It was an unusually cool night for June, so she was alone outside as she pulled the door shut behind her. She walked to the edge and rested her hands on the railing and the leaves that curled around it. That was one thing she loved about the mansions around Louisiana: the way the ivy crept and adorned every wall and other place it felt like growing.

She had lost her glass of wine somewhere inside, which was a shame, since she had only managed to feel a slight warmth around her face, and being in the company of Baron Vengeous usually required something a bit stronger.

The house was filled with plenty of people China would rather avoid, something she had been succeeding at right up until Mevolent managed to worm his way into her grandmother’s good graces, a feat in itself. China huffed a laugh, she guessed she had to admire him for that. Mama Sorrows was not a easy person to be loved by. 

So wrapped up in her thoughts, the sound of the door opening made China jump, and she spun around with far less grace than usual. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” her brother said, and China’s breath caught in her throat.

It had been weeks since she had seen Bliss, and that hadn’t been any accident. After the stunt she pulled two years ago, Mama Sorrows had made it very clear that China was on a leash when it came to her brother.

_ “Half brother,” her mother would always correct, the words hissed out between clenched teeth. “Your father’s son, not mine.” _

Looking between the two siblings, it was sometimes hard to tell. There resemblance went further than their deep blue eyes and flawless porcelain skin, it showed in the way they held themselves, they way they spoke and moved and smiled. Mr Bliss may have never been a Sorrows, but that didn’t mean he didn’t look like one.

“You look well,” her brother said, and China smiled tightly.

“I am.”

Bliss smiled back, and China could see how much it hurt him. She couldn’t help but be glad that she had enough of mother’s iciness to let her own pain be concealed. She almost found it funny how many people had told her how calm and stoic and unreadable her brother was, when he had always been such an open book to China.

“I’m assuming Vengeous doesn’t know you’re here yet?”

Bliss checked his watch. “I figure I have about five minutes until I’m recognised.”

“Five minutes?” China said in mock surprise. “What makes you think I wouldn’t alert our gracious host straight away?”

Bliss didn’t laugh. “China, this is serious. The Pleasant home burnt down today.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over them. China felt sick, the skin on the back of her neck prickling, but she didn’t dare let anything give her away. “What?”

“A few hours ago, no one called the fire department, the only thing that let anyone know was the smoke.”

_ Serpine _ . China wanted to vomit. “The family?”

Bliss shook his head. “His wife and child were both inside. No sign of him.”

_ He’s dead. Oh God, he’s dead _ . An ugly, wretched cry bubbled in China’s throat, but she forced it down. Not here, not now, not when she had so much work to do.

Her brother started forward, almost as if to hug her, but she raised a hand. “Do you know who did this?”

“Nothing concrete, but we suspect who is behind it all.”

“You won’t catch him out,” China said, “he has more lawyers than anyone I’ve ever meet, and he never leaves evidence.”

“If you testify–”

China laughed, short and bitter, marred by the thickness in her throat. “You can’t be serious?”

Bliss frowned and opened his mouth to argue, but China cut him off with a sharp shake of her head.

“No, no I’m not doing this, I’m not ruining my life and destroying everything I have worked for to join you and your crusade.”

“China, it's a better life.”

“No,” China all but hissed, trying desperately to rein herself in, “this is a better life. Security and wealth. I don't care about taking the moral high ground if it means I'm a family disgrace, an outcast with no one.”

Her brother looked heartbroken, and China finally had to look away. She didn't want his pity, didn't want him to look at her like she was a misguided child that needed saving. She knew what she was doing, and she had to live with her decisions.

“I am sorry to hear about your friend and his family,” China said evenly, sounding far more calm than she felt.

Bliss blinked, composing himself for a moment before he spoke. “I'm not going to stop trying to protect you China. I hope you know that. It's my job.”

China didn't watch as her brother walked away, closing the balcony door behind him.

 

-

 

Roarhaven had never felt so cold.

The last tragedy China could remember was several years ago, when Bespoke’s wife walked into the bayou and never came out. The town had moved through it’s mourning traditionally, with search parties and missing person posters, and ended with an empty casket in the cemetery. But Bespoke had been a grown woman; Skulduggery’s child . . .

Besides, no search party was needed for this case. Everyone knew where the ashes lay.

China knew that her grandmother had people watching her. She was barely ever left alone, not even in her library, a place that was once a sanctuary. China didn’t know if it was over concerns for her safety, or if Mama Sorrows realised that this may be the final push her granddaughter needed to join the ranks of her half brother. 

Only when China emerged from her office that afternoon, the library was remarkably empty. For a moment, China kept entirely still, like moving or making noise would break the spell, and people would suddenly materialise in front of her. But after a few moments, she collected herself, and moved towards the front desk. She had been looking for one of her many notebooks filled with translations. For someone so organised, she had always been reckless when it came to languages. It was hard for her to find structure when learning, and she did her best to practice languages whenever an opportunity presented itself. For this reason, she had pages and pages of scrawled notes kept away in different places.

“Looking for something?”

China spun around, brandishing a heavy book from the desk, the nearest thing that resembled a weapon.

Mevolent stood in front of her, looking worse than he had in a long while. He hid it well, his suit was clearly fitted and expensive, but haphazardly thrown together, and in need of an iron. His hair was short enough that it always looked neat, but he had dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was dull and dry. If she had cared, China would have asked if he had been eating properly.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” China said, aiming for friendly, but ending up as more of a threat.

Mevolent’s lip curled. “Something to hide?”

“Hardly,” China said, placing the book back on the desk. “If you sneak up behind someone, they’ll get a fright regardless of how they’re feeling.”

Mevolent looked down at the desk. His forehead creased, and he was suddenly impossible to read. Before China could say something,  _ anything _ , to make him snap out of it, he sighed and looked back at her.

“You’ll have to forgive me, the past few days have not been kind. It’s an awful thing that’s happened here.”

For the first time, China wondered just how much evidence Serpine had left behind. The case had been fairly open and shut as far as Roarhaven knew. Family home burnt to the ground, husband nowhere to be found - it was almost textbook. Not to mention, Skulduggery was an immigrant, an outsider. The only thing in his favour was the character evidence provided by black man. China couldn’t help but feel relieved, her brother must have invested a lot of time into this case to leave Mevolent so shook up.

“It is,” China agreed. She did not look away from his eyes, and the entire time they held each other’s gaze, she hoped he could see the rage she felt.

_ You killed that family. You did this, you monster. _

She doubted he felt guilt, but in that moment of defiance, China hoped he at least felt the slightest bit of fear. 

“I shouldn’t keep you from your work,” he muttered, fingers lingering over the desk for a beat. “Your grandmother just mentioned you were lonely lately, I figured I would drop by, see how you were holding up.”

China watched him head towards the door. “I’ll be sure to mention you dropped by the next time I see her. She’ll appreciate your thoughtfulness, she’s always saying how much of a blessing you’ve been to our family.”

“She flatters me,” Mevolent said, “I would be nowhere in this town without her.”

_ And Mama Sorrows will never forget it _ , China thought to herself, smiling slightly. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

Mevolent shot her a smile over his shoulder. “Stay safe, China,” he said sweetly, before shutting the library door, and leaving China standing there, in the silence.


End file.
